


A Tale for the Ages

by Willaphyx



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: College AU, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Modern AU, Time Travel AU, basically raven and wick build a time machine and bellamy and clarke end up in medieval england, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-17 07:25:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4657761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Willaphyx/pseuds/Willaphyx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke Griffin drew her borrowed cloak tighter around her, resisting the urge to bury her face in its soft furs, unable to take her eyes off the knight on the black horse, moving slower but perhaps more deliberately than his counterpart.  In an almost silence where the only sounds were the clanging of metal and the screams of men, punctuated only rarely by the protests of horses worked too hard and the oohs and aaahs of the gathered crowd, Clarke found herself too aware of the wound on the knight’s right shoulder, of the small trickle of blood that marred his otherwise impeccable armor.</p><p>Don’t die, she begged, but only in her mind, lest she be overheard.  Don’t you dare die, Bellamy Blake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been trying to work my way through this piece for a long time. I told myself I was going to finish it entirely first but I got impatient. It's over halfway done and I'm hoping to keep working on it and hopefully have it done by the end of this week.
> 
> Listen to the playlist [here.](http://8tracks.com/willaphyx/a-tale-for-the-ages)

“Come on, Clarke,” Octavia wheedled, “I know you don’t hate him as much as you say you do.”

Clarke angrily banged the cupboard door shut.  “Oh, is that so?” she asked darkly.

Octavia rolled her eyes.  “ _Come on_.  Even if you do want to smash his face in 99% of the time you have to admit this is an amazing achievement.  And can’t you just put aside your animosity for _one night?_ ”

Clarke glared at her.

Octavia grinned and added, “He said he wouldn’t call you princess once if you came.”

Clarke’s eyes narrowed.  “Really.”

“Really.”

“What’s the catch.”

Octavia chewed on her lip.  “Well…”

“Nope,” Clarke insisted, “nope, I’m not doing it.”

“ _Clarke!”_

“ _No_ , Octavia.  I’m not putting up with any more of your brother’s dumb demands that make me look like an idiot.”

Octavia looked sour.  “Well, in this case we’re all going to look like idiots.  You’re not going to be standing out, Clarkey.”

Clarke heaved a huge sigh and tipped her head back.  “Fine,” she relented, sticking her hand out and accepting the garment bag Octavia pressed into it.  “You and Bellamy both owe me big time.”

“Please,” Octavia muttered as Clarke bushed past her.  “I owe you nothing.  Because I am also wearing a dumb ass dress.”

“Hey!” Clarke yelled over her shoulder.  “He’s your relative!”

 

Clarke met Bellamy Blake at a frat party on her third night of her freshman year.  She’d been a little tipsy and a lot clueless and he’d been hot, charming, and attentive.  The rest was history.  He’d given her his number and she’d called him.  They’d hung out (with a fair share of making out) and Clarke was happy for about three months.

Then one day she’d shown up to surprise him at the on-campus coffee shop he worked at and found him shamelessly flirting with another girl.  She’d stormed out (after throwing some particularly nasty curses his way) and, if she’d had her way, never would have seen him again.

Then junior year happened.  Clarke was TAing for her favorite professor’s Intro to Art History class, a freshman requirement and, while perusing the enrolled students she’d come across one Octavia Blake, an undeclared major accepted into the School of Arts and Sciences.  Clarke had told herself that Blake was a common enough last name and surely this girl couldn’t be related to her arch-nemesis.

And yeah, okay so Clarke had looked her up on Facebook and yeah, okay her brother was in her profile picture.  And yeah, okay Clarke was amazed by how unlike her brother Octavia was, so much so that before Clarke even knew it, they’d fallen into an easy friendship.

And with Octavia came Bellamy.

 

Bellamy was late to his own party and Clarke seemed to be the only one who cared.

It was being held in the apartment that Raven shared with her boyfriend Wick, and had been done up with decorations that were probably meant for Hogwarts-themed parties.

“It’s the closest we could find to medieval!” Raven had protested when Clarke pointed it out.  “Anyway, Blake Sr.’s the only one who’ll care anyway.”

Clarke then looked down at her all-too-appropriate period tunic in contrast with Raven’s bar wench Halloween costume and sighed.

Raven grinned and clapped her on the shoulder.  “Cheer up, Clarke, your favorite verbal sparring buddy will be here soon and then you can yell at him instead.”

Clarke growled and snagged Wick’s can of beer right out of his hand.  She downed it before he could form the words to protest and Raven’s grin widened.  “There’s the spirit.”

Clarke flipped her off and threw the crumpled can at her boyfriend.

Bellamy, wearing a brightly colored doublet and stockings, appeared with a ditzy-looking brunette twenty minutes later, grinning widely, acting like he owned the place.  Clarke downed another beer and decided to pretend he wasn’t there, instead getting lost in a particularly violent game of Mario Kart with Monty and Miller that was rudely cut short when Raven appeared and dragged Monty out of the room, stating something about “checking over last details.”

Miller grinned as Clarke fell off the Rainbow Road track for the seventh time and she threw her controller away.  “What was that all about?” she asked, jerking her thumb in the direction of the door that Raven, Wick, Monty, and Jasper had all disappeared through.

Miller gave her a confused look.  “You mean you didn’t know?”

“Know what?”

“You remember that project that Monty and Jasper had for their quantum physics class?”

“The time travel one?” Clarke asked slowly.

Miller nodded.  “Well, once they got the theory all fleshed out they recruited Raven and Wick to build it for them.  Something about extra credit.”

“And they actually did?”

Miller shrugged. “I guess.  From what I understand it’s just a model so it doesn’t actually _work._ ”

Clarke heaved a breath.  “Well, thank God for that.”

He cracked a grin.  “Right.”  He handed her the controller back.  “You choose the next track.”

“Oh, what a gentleman,” she replied, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Whose a gentleman?” asked an all-too-familiar and cocky voice.

Bellamy had dropped onto the couch on Miller’s other side, where Monty had been not even five minutes ago.  

“Not you,” Clarke growled.

Miller shook his head again and added, “If you two are going to try to kill each other again I’m out.”

“I’ve never been anything but delightfully nice to Clarke here,” Bellamy said with a smirk.

Clarke glared at him.

“Bellamy?” asked his date timidly from behind the couch.  She was regarding Clarke with a wary gaze like one would use to look at a wild animal.

Clarke forced some of the tension to melt out of her and tried to smile at the girl.  From the look on Miller’s face she didn’t really succeed.

“Clarke, this is Camilla,” Bellamy said lazily.

“Pleasure,” Clarke said before turning back to Miller.  “Bowser’s Castle.”

“Clarke, come on!”

“You made me do Rainbow Road, Miller,” she said grimly.  “Bowser’s Castle.”

After Clarke had beaten him soundly, Miller gave up and wandered over to the food table where he was immediately drawn into a conversation with Octavia and Monroe over whether or not the second girl’s braids were period appropriate.  Bellamy watched with a lazy grin before turning back to Clarke.  She finally took the chance to take in his clothing, clearly something that he had either spent hours scouring the Internet for or had made himself.  The whole ensemble was absurdly period appropriate.

“You look ridiculous,” she said bluntly.

“Don’t be rude, princess.”

“Your sister said you wouldn’t call me that if I came and wore this dumb thing.”

“It’s not dumb!” he protested.  “It’s period specific!  Do you know how many weird Renaissance Fair websites I had to go through before I found that?”

Clarke stared at him.  “You bought this specifically for _me?_ ”

His cheeks reddened.  “Don’t be ridiculous.  I bought two for Octavia so at least she had a choice.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“And then I might have told her to give you the other one.”

“For God’s sake.”

“It’s not very lady like to take the Lord’s name in vain, Clarke.”

“Don’t be a dick, Blake.”

“It’s safe to say that you bring it out of me.”

She threw him a disgusted look.  “Nice to see that your victim of the night is of age this time.”

Bellamy rolled his eyes.  “I’m not that kind of guy, Clarke, and you know it.”

“Oh, _really_.”

He gave her a long look, eyes just the slightest bit pleading.  “Don’t make this about us.  It’s just a party.”

“You’re the one who came over here.  I was doing just fine before you—”

“Oh, come on,” Raven’s voice interrupted from behind them.  “If the two of you are going to try to scream at each other could you please do it in another room?  The rest of us are trying to get drunk on this mulled wine I found on Amazon.”  She held up her own glass as if in explanation and took a large swig.

Bellamy gave her a dark look and stood, eyes finding Clarke again.  “After you, princess,” he said in a mocking voice.  “After all, you’re the one getting me kicked out of my own party.”

Clarke got to her feet and marched out of the room, Bellamy following so close behind her she thought she could feel his breath on the back of her neck.

They ended up in Raven and Wick’s shared “office” which was more of a closet off the kitchen, with two desks crammed in next to a bookshelf overflowing with books about engineering and physics with titles Clarke couldn’t understand.  She stepped on a small gear and cursed, taking her next step more carefully so as to avoid the hodge podge of mechanical parts and machine innards scattered across the rug.

On Raven’s desk was a massive metal box with gears and wires feeding out of it and then back in.  The blinking LED screen read 1087 and a set of numbers that Clarke guessed were coordinates.  She stared at it for a second, head cocked, eyes zeroed in on the large red button in its center that said, “Push me, bitch.”

She choked on a laugh.

“So that’s it then,” Bellamy said quietly from the doorway.  “Looks like a piece of shit, doesn’t it?”

Clarke snorted.  “What would Raven say?  ‘Just because it’s ugly doesn’t mean it can’t flatten your ass.’”

His lips quirked up into a small smile.

“What’s with the freshmen, Bellamy, seriously.”

He looked up at her.  “You done yelling at me?”

She shrugged.  “Probably not.”

He laughed, ran a hand through his hair.  “I should have figured.”

She leaned against the bookshelf and crossed her arms.  “Explain.”

“I’m not explaining myself to you, Clarke.  Nor do I have to.”

The strum of anger that had formed in the living room reared its head again.  “Oh, really?” she demanded, stalking towards him.  “And why is _that?_ ”

“You’re my little sister’s best friend.  That’s all,” he said slowly.  “You and I mean nothing to each other.”

He paused.  Clarke dared him to finish the thought with his eyes.

“Not anymore,” he continued.

Clarke snapped.  “It was _your fault_ ,” she accused, advancing farther.  “ _You’re_ the one who fucked us up.  _Not_ me.”

“You’re the one who wouldn’t let me _fucking explain_ ,” he shot back.

“Why should I have let you?” she demanded.  “You’re the one who was flirting with some other girl in a coffee shop.”

He rolled his eyes.  “Please. I was hardly flirting with her.”

“I cannot believe you.  Three years—”

“Yes, exactly, _three years_ , Clarke, why can’t you just give it up?”

“Give…give it up?”  She laughed, a little bit maniacal.  “ _I can’t fucking believe you_.”  She stabbed him in the chest and he took a step back.  “I can’t just _let it go_.”

He took another step back.  There was a note of fear in his eyes now and it only fueled her anger.

“ _Three years_ and you’re still _lying_ about it!”

“Clarke—”

“Don’t _Clarke_ me,” she growled and his back hit Raven’s desk, dislodging a tray of circular discs that rolled across the floor with a loud clatter that brought Raven and Wick running.

“If you two are fucking with my shit—!” Raven was yelling as she banged open the door to find Clarke, chest heaving, basically inches from Bellamy’s face, finger still lodged over his breastbone.

“Well, this is awkward,” Wick muttered.  Raven was chewing her lip.

Startled by their appearance, Bellamy’s hand had slipped over the button.  Slight embarrassment coloring her cheeks, Clarke shifted back and slipped on what might have been a wrench, falling against Bellamy’s chest.

“Fuck!” Raven and Wick yelled in unison as he lost his balance and depressed the button.

With a loud whirring noise lights on the machine started popping on.  Raven and Wick were still yelling but it was Raven’s words that Clarke heard.  “Catch!” she screamed and Clarke turned just in time to catch one of the small circular discs that Bellamy had knocked off the table.

“Use it!” Raven was yelling as she wound back her arm to throw one at Bellamy.  “Use it to get back!”

 _Get back?_   _Get back to where?_ Clarke wondered as Raven’s voice was getting dimmer.

“What?” she yelled back but it sounded like she was trying to say something in a wind tunnel.  The whirring noise had intensified so that it was almost deafening.  She tried to step back from Bellamy, to fight her way away from the machine, which was surely the source of the noise, but she found she couldn’t.  Her finger seemed to be cemented to Bellamy’s chest and no matter how hard she pulled, she couldn’t get away.

Raven and Wick were fuzzy around the edges now, as were their office, but Clarke could still make out the terrified looks on their faces as the whirring noise grew louder and louder until she couldn’t even hear the pounding of her own heart over it.

“What’s happening?” Bellamy mouthed, and she could see fear reflected in his eyes.

Before she had the chance to answer, she blacked out.

 

Clarke came to with the chirping of birds ringing in her ears and the feel of grass against her back.  Her body ached, like she’d been slammed hard into something, and she groaned as she sat up, taking in the field around her.  There was a packed earth road, wide enough for a small car ten feet to her left, raised above the fields on other side on an embankment.  On her right was a copse of trees, rustling slightly in the faint wind.

Bellamy was already on his feet, staring dead ahead at the intimidating edifice to their right, a squat stone building, probably only a story high but with walls that appeared to be feet deep.

“No,” Bellamy was whispering.  “No, it can’t be.”

Clarke scrambled to her feet and brushed the dirt off her tunic, opening her fist to study the small circular disc Raven had thrown at her before they’d—they’d what?  Disappeared?  Been transported?  But to where?

But perhaps, Clarke thought, the real question wasn’t where, but _when_.

“Bellamy?” she asked timidly.

He jumped, as if he’d forgotten she was there, and turned.

“This isn’t as bad as I think it is, is it?” she asked.

He just looked at her.  “It’s definitely bad.”

“Scale of one to our Chem 101 final?”

He cracked a small smile.  “I think accidentally ending up in 1087 England is worse than a chemistry final, even if it’s taught by Dr. Stockton.”

It felt as though all of the wind had been knocked out of Clarke.  She took a fumbling step backward and opened her mouth a couple times, unable to find the words.  Finally she settled on, _“I’m sorry?”_

Bellamy pointed at the stone building he’d been staring at earlier.  “You see that?  That’s Colchester Castle, currently under construction and due to be finished in the year 1100.  I’ve only ever seen it in history books.”

“ _1087?”_ she repeated.

“That’s what was on Raven and Wick’s machine.  It would have been nice of them to tell us it actually worked though.”

He turned away again, arms crossed, posture stiff and shoulders tight.  But there was something else in the way his shoulder was cocked and in his gaze right before he’d looked away.  Wonder, maybe.  And of course, that would make sense.  Bellamy “history buff” Blake as everyone had always called him, sometimes so obsessed with the past that he forgot about the present.  Or at least, that was what Octavia had always said.

“Goddamn them,” Bellamy muttered now.  “Couldn’t have done some simple research.  _1087_.”

“What’s wrong with 1087?” Clarke ventured carefully.

Bellamy didn’t answer for a long moment.  But then he turned back towards her, a grave look on his face.  “In just over a month England’s nobles are going to lead an armed revolt against William II in favor of his brother Robert to unite England and Normandy.  We need to get out before then.”

Clarke felt a spike of anger flare in her.  “We _were_ _not_ going to stay here for a _month,_ Bellamy!  Anyway, I’ve got this thing.”  She showed him the disc.  “Don’t you have one?”

He looked away, suddenly sheepish.  “I wasn’t able to catch the one Raven threw at me.”

She rolled her eyes.  “Typical.”

“Don’t start with me, Griffin.” His voice was heated.

Clarke opened her mouth to make another angry retort but before any words could come out, he’d tackled her to the ground and had pressed a hand over her mouth.  Her token flew from her hand, bouncing and rolling into the road.  They both froze, staring at it before Clarke started struggling in earnest, clawing at the arm holding her down, but he only clamped down harder, hissing “Shhhhh.”

Clarke froze as, over his shoulder, she saw a cloud of dust rising from under the hooves of four horses, astride which were knights, fully dressed in medieval armor, the one in front carrying a banner aloft, left hand gripping the pole, right clamped tightly over the reins.  The blood-red fabric whipped in the wind, making it seem as though the roaring golden lion upon it was actually moving, paws stepping in time with the clomping of the horses’ hooves.

Bellamy’s breath was hot against her forehead, his body stiff, eyes fixed on the knights’ gleaming armor.  She saw his Adam’s apple bob and she swallowed, suddenly unable to breathe.

“Bellamy?” she asked quietly, as the gaggle of knights stopped, drawn to a halt by their leader, the one holding the banner.  He thrust it into the hands of the rider next to him and dismounted, landing with a clank of metal on the hard-packed road.  Bellamy jerked slightly at the mention of his name but otherwise gave no indication that he’d heard her.

The knight was leaning over now, inspecting something on the ground, and, with a sinking heart, Clarke already knew what would be in his gloved hand when he straightened, and sure enough, there was Raven and Wick’s token.  A ripple of whispers ran through the knights as their leader inspected it and said, “We take it to our master,” with an air of finality that said this man was used to not being questioned.  He mounted his horse again, took back the banner, and digging his heels into his horse’s flanks, led the pack further down the road.

It wasn’t until even the dust cloud had settled again, and the sound of galloping hooves had faded that Bellamy rolled off her and onto the grass, hand thrown over his eyes, breathing slowly.

Clarke pushed herself onto her knees and looked out at the massive stone edifice Bellamy had earlier identified as Colchester Castle.  Even despite the distance, Clarke could see that the road led right to its gates.  It was undeniably where the knights were going, where their master was, and therefore, where they were taking Clarke and Bellamy’s only way to get back to their own time.

“Let’s go,” she said forcefully, standing up and brushing the dust off her tunic.

“What?  Where exactly do you think you’re going?”  Bellamy was pushing himself off the ground as she turned, shocked.

She pointed vaguely in the direction the knights had gone.  “After our damn token.  It’s the only way we’re getting home and I don’t really want to be stuck in the fucking Middle Ages for the rest of my probably very short life, thank you very much.”

“Okay, _genius_ ,” he said, crossing his arms.  She would have laughed at the thick coat of dirt and dust that seemed to cling to every inch of him but the stony look on his face led her to decide that that might not be the wisest idea.  “How exactly do you propose we do that?”

“We tell them we need it back,” she said simply, turning and striking off for the path.

She was whipped back around by Bellamy’s hard grip on her arm.  “Right, because that’s going to convince a power hungry lord whose used to not being challenged by anyone.”

“So we tell them the truth.  That we’re from the future and we need to get it back to—“

She trailed off at the incredulous look on Bellamy’s face.

“ _Do you want to be burned at the stake?_ ” he hissed.

“You’re always saying that they didn’t do that!” she retorted angrily.  “Don’t tell me that all those lectures you gave me about historical inaccuracies when I took that History of the Middle Ages class were bullshit.”

Again Bellamy turned back to the castle.  He was silent for a long beat before replying, “the practice wasn’t as common as everyone likes to say it was.  But that doesn’t mean there weren’t some who…well.”

“What?”

“The lord that controls this town went down in history as being a sadistic son of a bitch.  Lord Edwin Amherst.”  He glanced at Clarke.  “They call him the Butcher of Essex.”

“Fabulous,” Clarke replied sarcastically.  “Just fabulous.  I am going to _kill_ Raven and Wick.”

Bellamy grinned, and there was a calculating look in his eyes as he said, “well, at least we’re dressed the part.”

“I’m sorry, _what?_ ”

“I’m going to get our token back.  Isn’t that what you want?”

“Yeah, but you just said the guy’s a psycho!”

“I’ve been preparing my whole life for this, Clarke.”

She crossed her arms, mimicking his earlier stance and glaring.  “Well, then I’m coming with you.”

He snorted. “Like hell you are.”

“I’m not just going to sit here and wait for you to get killed by some psychotic mass murderer, Bellamy Blake!”

“Like you care,” he replied dismissively.

“Maybe I don’t,” she said darkly.  “But without you I’ve got no chance here.”  She hiked up the hill onto the road.  “Now, let’s go,” she called over her shoulder.  “We’re wasting daylight.”

“Wonderful,” came Bellamy’s whispered sarcastic reply from behind her.  But she heard his footsteps as he hurried to join her and she smiled slightly to herself as together, they started trekking down the road that would take them to Colchester Castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come visit me on [Tumblr?](http://andrevvminyard.tumblr.com)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He will kill us, Clarke. When he finds out who we are, he will.”
> 
> It was the certainty in his voice, the “when” that got to her, ran right through her like an electric shock. When, he’d said. When he finds out. Not if, when.
> 
> She tilted her head to the side and one of her hands came up, ghosting just barely over his cheek before she ripped it away. There was something in his eyes that made it hard to look at him, that burned too brightly, that made Clarke want to confess feelings she’d pushed away so vehemently that she’d forgotten they were even there in the first place.

It wasn’t until the towering walls of Colchester Castle were all Clarke could see that she felt the seeds of doubt and worry blooming in her chest.

“Bellamy,” she said slowly, breaking the silence that had reigned over them since they had struck out for the castle.

“Yeah?”

“Didn’t you say the castle was unfinished?”

He stopped and looked up, staring at the completed battlements, the red banners emblazoned with the prancing gold lion, mouth open in a victorious roar, the metal portcullis raised and open, revealing the dark and gaping maw of the castle.

“It wasn’t supposed to be,” he said darkly.  “But come on, Clarke, like you said, we’re wasting time.”

And, with a worried glance over his shoulder, he grabbed her wrist and tugged her forward.  Usually Clarke would have replied angrily, would have pushed him to tell her  _why_  he wasn’t concerned that a castle that wasn’t supposed to be finished for another 20 or 30 years was apparently flourishing.  But there was something in his voice, a note of worry or perhaps fear that made Clarke think she didn’t really want to hear his answer.  So instead she just lifted her skirts so she didn’t trip over them and hurried after him into the towering shadow of the castle.

They crossed under the threatening spikes of the portcullis, still hovering high above them in the depths of the castle’s entrance.  Clarke couldn’t help but look up as they passed through the cavernous entrance, and shivered as her eyes skidded across the holes in the ceiling.

 _Murder-holes_ , her mind supplied helpfully.  At least that was what she thought Bellamy had called them once.

_“Its an extremely effective protection method,” he’d said, taking another one of the shots that Octavia pressed into his hand, a pained expression on her face.  “Guards would dump sand or tar or whatever on intruders—”_

_This time Octavia was pressing the entire bottle into his hand, forcing his fingers to close around it._

_“O, what, what’s this?”  He paused momentarily from his tirade to look confusedly at his sister._

_“I’m trying to get you drunk enough to shut the fuck up about medieval defense mechanisms,” she’d responded.  “Now drink.”_

But the knowledge of what the openings were for did little for Clarke’s worry.  Instead, she allowed Bellamy to hustle her forward, into a large and empty courtyard.  He pushed her on, past the castle’s stables and a small chapel, surrounded by yet another wall.  He barely left her the time to trace the outline of the roughly carved wooden cross mounted above the door before he was shoving her on with a muffled curse.

Then they were stepping onto the wooden planks of the castle’s drawbridge, passing over the murky waters of the moat, stagnant and still with no current stirring its surface, stopping at another portcullis, this one down, and flanked by two guards, one of whom stepped forward to stop them.

“State your business,” he said roughly.

Bellamy’s hand tightened around Clarke’s upper arm, a warning.  “I’m here to see the lord of this castle,” he said.

“And what is your business with Lord Amherst?”

“I am in search of a new master.”  Bellamy’s gaze was unflinching as the guard studied him then lifted a hand lazily.

“Let them through,” he called to an invisible cohort and, with a grinding of gears, the portcullis began to rise.

“Come on,” Bellamy whispered, pulling her through.  “Almost there now.”

They were in another courtyard now, this one smaller yet full of activity.  What Clarke thought might have been servants were hurrying across the cobblestones, their heads down, avoiding eye contact.  A group of three men that might have been part of the group of knights from before stood in the center of the courtyard, guffawing loudly.  Clarke spared them only the shortest of glances before looking away, not wanting to be noticed and afraid of what might happen if she were.

Bellamy led her directly across the courtyard, moving with purpose, his eyes focused on the the thrown open doors in front of them, spilling light and the sound of distant laughter into the courtyard.

The room was large and echoing, that was what she first noticed when they crossed the threshold.  The walls were constructed of roughly hewn stone and, despite the large fire burning halfway down the room, it was drafty and cold.  Clarke shivered slightly.  Long tables, set with plates and silverware that reflected the flickering candles in their centers, had been placed in two long lines down the room, creating an aisle that ran down the hall to a raised dais, dominated only by two chairs, one of which was occupied by a tall man robed in finery, leaning against the back of his chair with a lazy elegance.

Behind the man, still as statues, stood two more guards, hands glued securely to the hilts of their swords.  Their eyes were fixed surely on Clarke and Bellamy as they hurried up the aisle to the front of the room.  As they approached, the man in the chair, undoubtedly Lord Amherst, straightened, leaning forward slightly as the bored expression on his face was replaced by one of mild interest.

It wasn’t until they had reached the front of the room and Bellamy had sunk into a deep bow, dragging Clarke into a sort of forced curtsey, that he spoke, in a hoarse voice.

“Who are you and why have you come?”

Bellamy rose shakily out of his bow and Clarke followed, allowing her eyes to sweep over the man in front of them.  He had to be at least forty, with a wiry build and long face, disfigured by one long scar that stretched from his left temple across the bridge of his nose to his right jaw.

“My Lord,” Bellamy said in a slow voice.  “My name is Bellamy Blake, and this—“ he gestured to Clarke, “is my wife Clare.  We hail from the North and have heard much of your greatness.  I have come to beg your favor.”

“My favor?” Amherst sat back in his chair, studying Bellamy.  “A new master is what you really seek.  You are a knight without a commander.”  It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, my Lord.”

“And pray tell, knight, what happened of your last?”

“Dead.”

A whisper ran through the guards seated behind Amherst.  He raised a hand in a sharp motion, fist clenched, and the whisper died in its tracks.  “‘That is quite enough of that,” he said in a softly yet silky voice that sent shivers down Clarke’s spine.  “Elaborate.”  This last word was directed to Bellamy, who swallowed.

“He was killed in an uprising led by Robert, Duke of Normandy’s supporters.”

One of Amherst’s eyes narrowed, grotesquely stretching his scar.  Clarke forced herself to breathe, suddenly too aware of how the guards’ were clutching their swords, like they were prepared to draw them at the slightest word from their master.

“A pity,” Amherst said finally and behind him, his guards relaxed.  “Though Robert’s time will come.  His supporters will  _bleed_.”  He leaned forward again.  “So you seek a position in my ranks?  You wish to fight for me?  To swear fealty to  _me?_ ”

“Yes, my Lord,” Bellamy replied in a calm voice.

“Very well.  Many seek the same prize as you, Blake, but few shall receive it.  Tomorrow, there will be a tournament.  And in addition to earning a place amongst my knights and, by extension, my protection, you will win…this.”  He reached into his pocket and withdrew their token.  She’d known that he had it but still, Clarke couldn’t hide her sharp inhale, the only sound in the echo-y hall.  Amherst studied her for a moment before looking back at Bellamy, his expression sly.  “You win this token, Blake, you win my favor.  But do not think, for even the slightest moment, that it will be easy.”

He leaned forward again, grinning, and there was something animalistic about the gleam in his eye

“I understand, my Lord.”

“Tonight both you and your wife shall receive the best in hospitality that we can offer.   _You._ ”  He snapped his fingers in the direction of a girl straightening the table settings.  She spun, fear written clear across her face.  “Show them to an empty room.  And be quick about it, girl, the banquet’s guests will be arriving shortly.”

She sunk into a curtsey so deep Clarke thought it must have hurt, before throwing them a careful look and hurrying out of the hall.

“Tomorrow morning, Blake!” Amherst called from behind them as they turned to follow their guide.  “Don’t be late!”

Clarke felt as though she could breathe easy for the first time after the servant girl had closed the door behind them.  Bellamy had sunk onto the bed (singular and narrow at that, but Clarke would worry about their sleeping arrangements later) but she paced back and forth in front of him, mind spinning.

“This is  _insane_ ,” she hissed at him and he nodded into the cradle of his hands.

“You’re telling me,” he mumbled, voice muffled.

“What are you going to do?” she demanded.

He lifted his head and gave her a doleful look.  “There’s only one thing I can do, Clarke.”

She stared at him, eyes widened with shock and disbelief.  “You can’t be serious.”  When he didn’t say anything, she crossed the distance between them and sunk to her knees in front of him, forcing him to meet her eyes. “Bellamy, you  _can’t_  compete.”

He shrugged.  “I have to.”

She shook her head.  “No, no, you don’t.  We’ll figure something out.  There has to be another wa—”  She moved to stand but he caught her forearms, smiling faintly.

“There isn’t going to be another way, Clarke.  To go home we need that token. And to get that token, I need to win Amherst’s tournament.”

Clarke barely suppressed her hysterical laugh.  “ _Win?  Win?_   Bellamy, I don’t even know if you’re going to  _survive_  this thing let alone  _win!”_

His voice was dry as he said, “thanks for the support, princess, it means a lot.”

“I just—do you even know  _how_  to joust?”

The offended look on Bellamy’s face made her want to laugh, despite everything.

“Do I— _do I know how to joust?_   Clarke, what kind of medieval history major do you think I am?”

She gaped at him.  “I don’t even know why I’m surprised right now,” she muttered, shaking her head.  “Jesus  _Christ_ , Bellamy.  You can’t seriously be thinking of doing this.”

He looked up at her and the wounded look was gone, replaced entirely by such deep sadness and acceptance that Clarke had to swallow.

“I don’t have a choice.  If I don’t do this, we don’t get home.  We’re forced to stay here, living a lie.  A lie that will be discovered, Clarke.  And Amherst won’t like that.”  He looked away and she thought she might have seen him swipe at his eyes.  “I would never be able to live with myself if I was the reason why you died, Clarke.’

“Bell—”

“He  _will_  kill us, Clarke.  When he finds out who we are, he will.”

It was the certainty in his voice, the “when” that got to her, ran right through her like an electric shock.   _When_ , he’d said.  Not if, but when.

She tilted her head to the side and one of her hands came up, ghosting just barely over his cheek before she ripped it away.  There was something in his eyes that made it hard to look at him, that burned too brightly, that made Clarke want to confess feelings she’d pushed away so vehemently that she’d forgotten they were even there in the first place.

“You’re not going to die on me, are you?”

A small laugh bubbled out of his throat and he shook his head.  “Not if I can help it, princess.”

She nodded, if only so she didn’t have to look at him and that earnest look on his face.

“Okay,” she whispered.  “I’m going to hold you to that, Bellamy Blake.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

 _Too much_ , the voice at the back of her mind whispered.   _Too much, too much, too much._

“But you stay out of sight, okay?” he was saying.  “Especially keep away from Amherst, I didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”

“That was the plan.”  She  had been trying for nonchalance but it came out sounding more strangled than anything.

“Good.  Okay.  I’m going to get you that token, Clarke, I swear to you.”

“Now’s not the time for grand-sweeping proclamations, Blake, we got shit to do.”

He smiled and a glimmer of that light she’d always been so attracted to blazed in his eyes.  “You got—”

There was a faint knock on the door.

Suddenly stiff, Bellamy pushed Clarke to the side, and rocketed to his feet.  He strode to the door and opened it.  “What?” he snapped.

Clarke, picking herself up off the floor barely caught a glimpse of someone wearing the robes of Amherst’s staff before a wavering voice was saying, “A message for the Lady Blake.”

Bellamy cast a careful glance back at Clarke, confusion written deep into the lines of his forehead before he looked back at the servant and asked, “What?  Why?”

“My Lady wishes that she join her in her chambers.”  The man looked to Clarke.  “My lady?  If you would just follow me.”

Clarke’s eyes slid to Bellamy.  There was a muscle jumping in his jaw that Clarke was far too familiar with, though only from afar.  He was worried.

She lifted her head and nodded.  “Of course.”  As she swept past Bellamy she leaned up and, under the guise of pressing a kiss to his cheek, whispered “be careful” into his ear.  He gave only the slightest of nods to acknowledge that he’d heard and then she was being led down the dark corridor, away from her only chance at maybe making it out of here alive.

Clarke had never been the best with directions or orienting herself but she was fairly certain that she was being led deeper into the castle.  The furnishings were getting richer and more detailed.  Whereas the corridor she and Bellamy had been led to was bleak and bland, with bare walls and a handful of narrow windows, the ones they were passing through now were elaborate, covered with tapestries and filled with the flickering light of torches mounted in ornate brackets

Clarke only had to look at one or two of the tapestries to understand where Amherst’s nickname as the Butcher of Essex had come from.  She suppressed the urge to gag at the depictions of such evident violence: beheadings, dismembered limbs, hangings, burnings, and one particularly gruesome piece that seemed to show a handful of soldiers peeling the skin from a man’s body, the victim’s mouth open in a silent scream.

She swallowed and pushed herself to walk a bit faster, trying to ignore the growing pit of roiling fear in her stomach, mostly for Bellamy, should he fail.

The door she was bowed through was large, ornate, and detailed, carved with the image of a young maiden on her knees, head bowed, praying to an old and gnarled tree, whose branches almost seemed to be reaching down to her.

There was a  small squeak and Clarke’s attention was drawn from the door into the room itself and to its only inhabitant, a small woman, who looked more like a girl, really.  A golden circlet glistened among the waves of her red hair, and the emerald fabric of her tunic just brushed the floor as she flitted across the room, to Clarke, moving as though to grasp Clarke’s hands, but dropping her own at the last minute.

“You are the Lady Clare?” she asked, in an almost breathless voice.

Clarke nodded.

The woman smiled again and threw a glance over Clarke’s shoulder.  “You may leave us.”

Clarke turned just in time to see the servant bow out of the room, closing the doors with a sharp  _click_  behind him.  She then turned back to her host, undoubtedly Amherst’s wife, though the two of them couldn’t have seemed more different.

Where Amherst was all cold and calculating energy, this woman possessed a bright, almost bubbly, energy that seemed out of place in the damp and dimly lit castle.

“Come,” she said, gesturing to the two armchairs drawn up in front of a grate, in which a small fire burned feebly.  “Sit with me.”

Clarke did as she asked, crossing the room slowly, taking in its lavish furnishings, the bedsheets thrown aside, the tarnished silver candelabras that flanked the headboard, the coat of arms hanging over the fireplace.  She sank into the chair carefully, barely daring to return the other woman’s smile.

“It’s lovely to meet you,” she said once Clarke had settled herself.  “As soon as I heard there was another lady in the castle, I simply had to meet you.  I’ve been oh, so  _lonely_.”

Clarke opened her mouth and then closed it, dumbfounded.

The other woman slid onto the edge of her chair and reached for Clarke’s hands again, taking them this time.  They were cold but smooth.   _Noble’s hands_ , Clarke’s mind supplied.   _Rich person’s hands_.

“My name is Gwendolyn,” the woman continued.  “But my friends call me Gwen.”  She paused.  “And we are going to be friends, right?”

There was something in the glowing expectancy of her face, the hopefulness, that made her nod without even thinking.

Gwen’s face was split wide with a dazzling smile.  “Oh, wonderful,” she said, sitting back again, curling up almost like a cat in her chair.  “It does get so very lonely being here all alone.”  She looked away and then added, much more quietly, “Edwin doesn’t have much time for me, you see.  I am his third wife and by now, I believe, he has tired of the pleasantries that come with marriage.”

Clarke forced down the surprise threatening to take over her face.  This was not shocking, not for this time.  A man of Amherst’s age was sure to have had other wives, dead or divorced, or victims of some worse fate.  She forced herself to not dwell on that.

“Yes,” Gwen said with a fake smile.  “I was raised to be the wife of a noble, of a strong man, who would care for me.  At least, that’s what my mother always said.  So when Lord Edwin Amherst sent a messenger to my father one day, expressing a strong interest in wedding me, it was a dream come true.  For my family.”

There was a tone of almost bitterness in her voice that made Clarke think she did not agree with her family on this note.

“He is a strong man, my husband,” she continued, almost in a trance.  “But perhaps not in the best of ways.”  Her eyes flickered up to Clarke.  “Do you understand, Lady Clare, of what I speak?”

Clarke’s mind flew to the tapestries in the hallway, to the cruel look in Amherst’s eyes when he’d announced the tournament and spoke of the bloodshed, as if he was waiting for it, reveled in the knowledge that for him, men would kill each other.

“I do,” Clarke answered honestly.  “My Lady.”

“Oh, there’s no need for such pleasantries.  I’m Gwen.  And you’re Clare.”

Clarke smiled, nodded.

“Now tell me,” Gwen said brightly, “what is it like being the wife of a knight?  Exhilarating?  Dangerous?”

Clarke thought for a moment, studying the other woman’s hopeful face.  She was so desirous of a tidbit of information, something that might, if only for a second, take her out of his dull life that she had been forced into from such an early age, that she had dragged Clarke here just to question her.  Clarke couldn’t say she minded, it was a welcome distraction from worrying over how Bellamy was likely to die tomorrow and how short her own life would be after he was gone.

Their marriage might have been a lie, and a clever one on Bellamy’s part to keep her safe, but there was no denying that she and Bellamy did know each other well—their years of quasi-friendship and the months they had spent on the brink of  _almost_ had been enough to ensure that.

“All of the above,” she answered honestly and Gwen laughed, a bright sound like the ringing of bells.

“Do you fear for him, your husband?”

“Yes,” Clarke answered quickly, not even having to dwell on the answer.

Gwen looked away, face drawn.  “Edwin’s tournaments are never a light thing,” she said finally.  “Many die.”

Clarke swallowed.

“I do not mean to scare you, just tell you the truth.  If your husband is to survive, he must be of superior skill and strength.”

“And if he is to win?” Clarke asked, her voice cracking only slightly.

Gwen’s expression was somber.  “Then he must be like a god, my dear lady.  For no other stands a chance against Edwin’s strongest fighters.”

Clarke straightened.  “I thought the tournament was just between those who wish to join Lord Amherst’s ranks.”

Gwen’s face was dark as she pondered her answer.  “That is what he tells his competitors,” she said finally.  “But the truth is that Edwin rarely wishes to extend his protection to those he does not already know and trust—”

“So he slips in his own knights and allows them to slaughter the competition?” Clarke interjected angrily.

Gwen smiled sadly.  “Surely his reputation precedes your arrival, Clare, surely you know of what kind of beast my husband is, of the lengths he will go for his own entertainment.”

A shiver raced down Clarke’s spine.  “I must warn Bellamy.”

“There is no chance of that now.  Edwin’s pre-tournament festivities will have already begun.”

“Pre-tournament festivities?”  Clarke’s tongue stumbled over the words.

“You’ll see soon enough.  As the wife of a competitor, you will undoubtedly be a guest of honor at tonight’s banquet.”

This news did little to console Clarke.  She swallowed thickly.  The knowledge that Bellamy could die tomorrow on a medieval battlefield just for the enjoyment of a sadistic man only so that he could try and return her home and she might not even be able to warn him was too much.

“I will ensure that he stands a fighting chance.  More than, if I can.”

Clarke looked up at Gwen, who nodded assuredly.

“Why?” she asked quietly.  “You’ve never even met Bellamy.  And you barely even know me.”

Gwen smiled sadly.  “You speak the truth.  And yet, I cannot stand to let a man who has inspired such feelings of love in you perish simply for the sick amusements of a mad man.”

“But how?”

“Don’t trouble yourself with the details.  I will ensure that it is done.”  There was a finality in Gwen’s voice that had been absent previously in their conversation.  Perhaps she was stronger, smarter, than Clarke had originally given her credit for.

“Thank you,” Clarke said quietly.

Gwen only nodded.

“How did you know?” Clarke asked again after a pause.

“Know what?”

“That I love him.”  She had expected the words to taste wrong on her tongue, but they flowed out as naturally as any.

 _Perhaps because they’re true_ , a traitorous voice whispered in the very back of her mind.

She shook her head, imperceptibly, in an attempt to clear her head.  No matter what her feelings for Bellamy were, now was hardly the time to contemplate them.

Gwen’s eyes searched her face.  “My dear Clare, it was evident from the moment that you first said his name.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come visit me on [Tumblr?](http://andrevvminyard.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s going to die.  
> “You don’t know that,” Gwen said sharply and Clarke spun.  
> She hadn’t realized she’d said that out loud. Gwen’s face was defiant. Clarke stopped pacing.  
> “How can you know?” Clarke demanded. “You’ve told me that Lord Amherst is sending his best men out onto that field to slaughter the competitors. How can you possibly tell me that Bellamy isn’t going to die out there?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so so sorry this took me so long to write. I've had most of it written for weeks but there was one section that kept tripping me up. Hopefully part four won't take nearly as long!

Clarke got a taste of what Gwen meant by “Edwin’s pre-tournament festivities” barely an hour later when another servant appeared at the door, sunk into a deep bow, and informed the flagstoned floor that “the guests have arrived.His Lordship is ready for you, my lady.”

Gwen stood.“Thank you, Cresswell.Please inform His Lordship that the Lady Clare and I will be down to join him shortly.”

The servant, Cresswell, bowed impossibly lower and exited the room, leaving the door slightly ajar.Gwen shot Clarke an inscrutable look.

“Are you ready?”

“For what?”

Gwen smiled sadly.“There is no way to prepare you for what you will see tonight.”

The words left a sinking sense of worry and doubt in Clarke’s stomach, but she had no choice but to follow Gwen from the room to retrace the path she had been led earlier, back to the Great Hall.

Her one solace was that perhaps there would be enough time to speak briefly with Bellamy, to warn him that Amherst’s tournament was meant more for his own entertainment than anything.That his own forces were to be set loose on the unknowing competitors, with instructions to slaughter them if they could.

The castle felt somehow colder, Clarke decided, as they passed through the hallways, not quite hurrying, but not strolling either.Perhaps it had something to do with her gained knowledge of its lord and her fear for what was to come.Or perhaps it was merely because night had fallen, and the squares of sky visible through the corridor windows were a deep dusky blue.

Roars of laughter echoed out of the Great Hall as they approached and Clarke steeled herself for what was within.Despite the rosy glow of candelabras and the torches mounted on the wall, she was sure that this would be far from a cozy get together.Gwen slowed just slightly before she reached the doors, and seemed to take a deep breath.She thrust her shoulders back, and, with a careful backward glance at Clarke, stepped through the doorway, Clarke tight to her heels.

Conversation in the room died seemingly all at once, as the gathered occupants swiveled in their seats to watch Gwen and Clarke pass up the main aisle, toward a large head table that had replaced Amherst’s throne.The lord himself was seated in its center, sipping from a glass of wine looking almost bored, but watching his wife’s approach with a predatory gaze.To his left and right, seated in shorter and much more uncomfortable looking chairs, were at least twenty more men.They, too, watched as Gwen skirted around the table to take an empty seat on Edwin’s left side but their expressions seemed more apprehensive, like they were waiting for something.

As soon as Gwen had taken her seat, the men and women seated at the Hall’s other tables, oriented perpendicular to the Head Table, turned back to their previous conversations.

“Lady Clare,” Amherst drawled as his eyes lazily slid to her.

Clarke froze.

“My Lord.”

Amherst snapped his fingers and a servant materialized out of the darkness behind the table, bearing a chair.

“Move down,” Amherst snapped at the men next to Gwen and, grumbling, they did, clearing a space for the chair.“Please, take a seat,” he said, his voice slicker than before, a lopsided smile playing around his lips.

Gwen’s face was grave, her eyes directed forwards.And her hands, Clarke saw, as she sat carefully, were clasped so tightly in her lap that they were turning white.

It felt like eons until Amherst stood, throwing his arms out to the sides in greeting, a smile curving his mouth into something sinister but Clarke knew that it could have only been moments since she sat.

“My friends,” Amherst began, and his voice echoed through the room that had suddenly become silent.“Thank you for your presence today.It is a great _honor_ to have you all here, assembled in front of me.”

His guests shuffled anxiously as quiet indistinguishable murmurings passed between them.Despite the face value of Amherst’s words, it was clear that he had meant anything but.No matter what those who had come thought, they were not his friends.Lord Edwin Amherst, Butcher of Essex, had no friends.They were there because he had asked them.And because they all knew the consequences of not appearing when they were called.

“I have asked you all here to witness a truly important event, a grand tournament larger than any I have ever held, of a magnitude that will rival even that of our _dear_ king.”

More whispers shot through the crowd.Amherst’s body stiffened.Next to Clarke, Gwen swallowed loudly.

“This, is why we are here!”Amherst was almost shouting now, and there was a muscle jumping in his jaw that reminded Clarke painfully of Bellamy.Bellamy, who she had not yet seen.From within his tunic, he produced the token, and brandished it, holding it aloft so that everyone in the Hall could see it.Once again, stifling silence fell.All eyes were on Amherst’s hand.“Tomorrow’s lucky winner takes home the prize of all prizes,” Amherst continued.“But first, we _feast_.”

And the doors burst open to admit an army of servants, bearing platters upon platters of food.Amherst sat, looking pleased with himself, as he replaced the token in the pocket he had taken it from.

“Gwendolyn, my darling,” he said, turning to his wife, a charming smile plastered across his face.“Won’t you have some of the duck?I’ve heard that it’s _mouthwatering_.”On this last word, his eyes slid to Clarke.She stared steely back.

The banquet was nothing like Clarke had been expecting.It was all raucous laughter and flowing wine and delectable food.As the evening progressed, and the guests got drunker, the atmosphere lightened but just slightly.And no matter how much those around her laughed and smiled, Clarke couldn’t manage to shake the cold trickle running down her spine.

It wasn’t until the last of the plates had been cleared and wine goblets filled yet again that silence once again fell in the Hall as the servants moved amongst the tables, blowing out candles.The room was left in a dusky darkness, punctuated only by the scant torches left burning on the walls and the one candelabra that remained on the Head Table, set in front of Amherst so that it’s light emphasized the deep contours of his face.

In the half darkness, his scar looked even more repulsive, and there were shadows where there should have been flesh.Unbidden, Clarke’s mind called up an image of the Devil.

“It is time,” Amherst said, in a slow voice that was almost melodic, “for our competitors to join us.”He swept a hand towards a door that Clarke hadn’t noticed before, set back into a far corner where its only company were long shadows and cobwebs.That same door creaked open to reveal a long line of men, dressed in blood-red fabric.Clarke barely stifled her gasp when she saw Bellamy among them, his dark skin and hair standing out starkly against the crimson.She hardy dared to breathe as the men trooped out in front of the Head Table where they stopped and, in one fluid motion, bowed to Amherst.

He was grinning again.

“Let it begin,” he said simply, falling back into his chair with the lazy grace that all men secure in their power possess and watched, with that same predatory gleam in his eye, as the man seated at one end of the table, with a heavy hulking figure and a thick face that looked like it had been chiseled from rock, stood.

His voice rumbled out of him like a thundering landslide, deep and slow.“All those gathered have expressed their wish to compete in the tournament.One step remains between them and their fighting chance at a prize fit for God.”With the eyes of everyone in the Hall on him, he reached for the large silver goblet that had been in front of him all evening.“As a knight, you are expected to sacrifice yourself for the might and strength of your lord.Lord Amherst expects nothing but the finest in dedication from his servants and wishes that you prove yourselves worthy.Let it be known that the weak have no place in his court.”

Wordlessly he slid a long silver dagger onto the table as he replaced the cup.Then, sinking back into his chair, he linked his fingers together and watched, as the first man raised the dagger with barely shaking fingers.

Clarke was biting the inside of her cheek to stop herself from crying out as the man viciously sliced at his own forearm, sending a spurt of blood into the cup.And so it went, man after man, and as Bellamy stepped closer and closer to the end of the table and the bloodied dagger, Clarke felt her heartbeat pound harder in her chest.

When it was his turn he raised the knife with an almost practiced grace.His hand was steady, his grip sure.There was no hesitation as he slashed down.

There was a gasp from the crowd as he looked right at Amherst and there was a challenge there. _I don’t back down that easy_ , Bellamy’s eyes screamed.Amherst’s smile widened and he inclined his head, just slightly. _Challenge accepted_.

Bellamy held the eye contact for a moment longer before putting the knife back down on the table and moving on.Amherst watched him go, his smile fading into something worse, an expression that was almost a glower.Clarke was so busy watching him that she didn’t notice as the last two men sliced open their arms and bled into the cup.

She jumped in her seat slightly when the deep-voiced man stood again, his chair scraping back the only noise in the Hall.He raised the goblet and, to Amherst said, “the blood of your most loyal servants.”

Amherst nodded and the man strode around the table, kneeling and presenting the goblet so that the guests gathered below could watch as Amherst raised it to his lips and drank.

Clarke’s stomach twisted with disgust and horror as the cup was lifted away to reveal that Amherst’s lips were stained ruby red.His grinned a savage grin.“Let the games begin.”

 

“It’s sick,” Clarke muttered as she paced back and forth on the hearth.“Sick.”

From her sprawled perch on the bed, Gwen watched, a stricken look on her face.“Clare, please, sit down.”

Clarke wheeled on her, glaring.“Sit down? _Sit down?_ I just watched your husband _drink someone’s blood and you want me to sit down?”_

Gwen shrunk back and Clarke felt a momentary twinge of remorse before she remembered why she was so angry in the first place.There was no way around it—Amherst was insane.And Bellamy along with the rest of the tournament’s competitors were going to be slaughtered tomorrow just for his enjoyment.And Clarke had had no way to communicate that to Bellamy.He was walking into a trap and he didn’t know.

_He’s going to die_.

“You don’t know that,” Gwen said sharply and Clarke spun.

She hadn’t realized she’d said that out loud.Gwen’s face was defiant.Clarke stopped pacing.

“How can you know?” Clarke demanded.“You’ve told me that Lord Amherst is sending his best men out onto that field to slaughter the competitors.How can you possibly tell me that Bellamy isn’t going to die out there?”

“I saw the look on his face,” Gwen answered calmly.“When he provided his offering—” Clarke spluttered.“A lofty word for such a crude practice, I know, Clare, but please.”Clarke closed her mouth and crossed her arms.“When he provided his offering,” Gwen continued, “I saw him look at Edwin in a way that I’ve never seen anyone look at Edwin before.Your husband is a fighter and I find it hard to believe that he will go down without a fight.”She paused.“Not when he is not just fighting for Edwin’s favor and the token.Not when he’s also fighting for you.”

 

Clarke managed barely more than three hours of sleep that night.She laid awake, hands folded neatly over her stomach, staring at the canopy of Gwen’s bed, as the other girl snored gently next to her.In less than twenty-four hours her and Bellamy’s fate would be decided.If he lost, if he…died…then she had no chance.Edwin would kill her or worse.

He couldn’t die.She wouldn’t let him.

It was colder than the day before and Clarke shivered a little as she left the main gate of the castle with Gwen, who cast her a concerned look but said nothing.Clarke stared straight ahead as they followed the winding track down to the tournament grounds, steeling herself and trying not to look for Edwin.She was too worried about what she might do if she saw him.

The tournament field was carefully manicured grass.If she wasn’t uncomfortably aware of her own tunic and the distinctly medieval dress of those around her, Clarke might have managed to convince herself that it was the green of a golf course and that this was all just a bad dream.

A series of wooden stands had been erected facing the green with stadium-style seating that ensured everyone would have equal viewing rights to the carnage that was sure to take place on that perfect field.Clarke swallowed the revulsion in her throat.

“I asked Edwin to let you sit with us,” Gwen whispered into her ear.“He agreed.”

Clarke followed her gesturing finger to the three chairs set front row and center.She opened her mouth to say something, what she didn’t know, but found there truly were no words.Gwen grasped her upper arm and tugged gently.

“Come.”

The crowd filled in around them, noisy and rambunctious, clearly ready for a day of good fun.Clarke felt revulsion rise in the back of her throat.

This was what Bellamy had always tried to explain to her and Octavia over half-melted bowls of ice cream and unplayed history documentaries.The story of how human suffering was viewed as entertainment, how one man’s death was the highlight of another’s week.She wished she’d listened to him now, but instead she and O had just insisted that he stop, that this wasn’t the Middle Ages, and they didn’t want to hear about how men would be ripped limb from limb by their neighbors on a fake battlefield.

Except here they were.It was the Middle Ages.And Bellamy very well might be killed before this day was out.

Edwin was the last to join the spectators.Dressed in a resplendent robe, stitched with gold, he looked like a conquering emperor, coming to lord over his subjects for the first time.He took his place in the empty chair between Gwen and Clarke and, with only a moment’s pause, raised his hand.

“Let the tournament begin.”

The crowd was deathly silent as the two sides appeared out of the mist, straight-backed knights astride pawing steeds, armor glinting in the faint sunlight, betraying nothing.

And there, that was Bellamy, five men in from those closest to the stands, sitting tall in the saddle like he belonged there.Clarke barely managed to disguise her intake of breath as, if they had been given some unseen signal, the two sides rushed at each other, a battle cry that made goosebumps break out across Clarke’s skin borne over the spectators.

Next to her, Edwin must have seen her shiver, because he nudged her arm gently and, with a leering grin, offered his own cloak.“My Lady.”

She reached out carefully, willing her hands not to shake, and took the offered agreement.As hard as she tried to avoid it, their fingers brushed slightly.His were calloused and cold.The hands of a warrior or perhaps and executioner.

She slung the cloak over her shoulders, hating how she instantly felt warmer and turned her attention back to the tournament field, eyes searching for Bellamy.

She found him just as another knight took a long and practiced swing at him.Bellamy ducked it easily, jabbing at the man’s blindspot with his own sword, knocking him off his horse where he was trampled almost immediately by the frenzied steps of his own steed.His blood wasn’t all that stained the battlefield.The beginning of the tournament had been a blood bath and there were disfigured bodies strewn across the grass.

The tournament seemed to take forever and yet also happen in the blink of an eye.Clarke watched, hands fisted tightly in her borrowed cloak as man after man was cut down with brutal efficiency by the men Clarke supposed were Edwin’s hired men, sadistic killers who grinned savage grins after every downward hack of their swords.

Edwin himself watched with a brutal glint in his eyes that made Clarke squirm.Somehow Bellamy was so far managing to weather the attacks, fending off stronger and more practiced enemies, but he was growing tired, that much was clear.His swings were getting slower, and even from a distance, it looked like his arm was beginning to shake.

She was almost starting to hope that maybe, just maybe, they’d get lucky when another competitor galloped to Bellamy’s side, appearing almost out of nowhere, sword raised high and already on its descent before he had even realized he was there.The clang of metal on metal was deafening as the sword came down, glancing off Bellamy’s armor and lodging in the crack just under his shoulder.

Bellamy’s wince was evident even from a distance and Clarke blanched.His blood seemed too bright, too red, too much.Her fingers clenched tighter, going bloodless and white.She swallowed.

The next swing caught him in the chest and, with a decisive nudge, the other knight had successfully pushed Bellamy out of the saddle.He hit the ground decisively, rolling onto his side and coughing once, hand grabbing for his sword as she pushed himself to his feet.His attacker, swinging the sword loosely and with a practiced ease, advanced.Bellamy steeled himself, raising the sword.

Clarke leaned forward in her seat, forcing herself not to stand and watched with bated breath.Next to her, Edwin’s eyes were locked onto the same fight as Bellamy slashed at his attacker’s leg.The man hissed, and stabbed down quickly in retaliation but Bellamy ducked, yanking on the other knight’s wounded leg, successfully pulling him to the ground.

The man attempted to stand and fell, clearly hindered by the wound to his leg.Edwin’s hands tightened on the arms of his chair as his knight tried and failed, again, to stand.He turned his head slightly and hissed something to the guard standing behind his chair.

The trumpeting horn blown behind her made Clarke nearly jump out of her skin.The competitors on the field froze on the spot, turned to Edwin.

“This tournament has come to a close,” Edwin boomed from his seat.“Those standing are invited to a banquet in the Great Hall.”He turned to Gwen.“My Lady.”She stood primly and, after only a moment to pause, put her arm through his.They filed past Clarke, still sitting, eyes fixed only Bellamy, standing alone in the center of the field, blood still dripping down his armor.Gwen squeezed her shoulder lightly and then was gone.

Bellamy pulled off his helmet and turned to the stands, posture stiff.She could tell the moment that he saw her as his shoulders relaxed and he dropped the helmet.Clarke felt her eyes prick as she pressed a hand to her mouth.

He was injured, certainly, but alive.And they were one step closer to recovering the token and returning to their own time.She smiled to herself.

The Great Hall felt colder than before, and draftier, when Clarke slipped in.The knights who had somehow managed to survive the tournament were engaged in rowdy amusement, toasting each other with large flagons of beer.Edwin, grinning that bloodthirsty smile, was sitting at the high table, flanked by his usual legion of guards, with Gwen at his side, looking wan and uncomfortable.

And yet Bellamy was nowhere to be found.She searched the tables with a renewed vigor, heartbeat racing as she failed to find him.A hand descended on her shoulder and she yelped, before a second wrapped around her mouth.

“Shhhh,” Bellamy whispered in her ear.“It’s just me.”

She sagged in relief and turnedto look him over.“ _Bellamy_ ,” she whispered.“You’re…you’re okay?”

He smiled slightly.“Relatively.I’ve still got this bloody slash wound on my arm.”

Clarke rolled her eyes.“Don’t be a baby, Bellamy.”

“I could die, Clarke, don’t write this off.”

“I can’t believe you’re joking,” she hissed at him.“This is _serious_.”

“Oh, really?” he replied sarcastically.“As if I wasn’t the one who spent most of this morning being attacked by medieval knights on horseback.”

“We can argue over who had the most trying day later, okay, now can we please just get _out of here?”_

He smiled.“Yeah, yeah, all right.”

Clarke pushed open the door and let Bellamy slip out first.Before she followed, she cast a glance around the Great Hall, nearly tripping over her own feet when she noticed Edwin watching them, a look as cold as ice on his face.Gwen was conspicuously missing.

Bellamy and Clarke rushed back to the room they’d been shown to when they first arrived, locking the door behind them.Clarke collapsed against the wall, letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“We got lucky,” Bellamy was saying.“I think we’re safe.For now.”

“No,” a voice said from the bed.“You’re not.”

Clarke’s eyes shot open, finding Gwen as she unfolded herself from the bed.Bellamy threw himself in front of her, posture protective.

“Bellamy,” she whispered, pushing him to the side.“Bellamy, it’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” he growled.“She’s his _wife_.Who knows why she’s here.”

“She’s not going to hurt us, Bell, it’s _fine_.”

“He’s right to be wary,” Gwen said quietly.“But I’m not here to hurt you.I’m here to warn you.”

“About what?” Bellamy demanded.

“Edwin,” she said.“He’s going to kill you both.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come cry with me on [Tumblr?](http://rebelprincebell.tumblr.com)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He’s going to what?”  
> “Kill you,” Gwen repeated calmly.  
> “And you’re going to what?” Bellamy asked. “Help him?”  
> Gwen jerked as if she’d slapped her.  
> “Bellamy,” Clarke hissed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are! Finally at the end! This fic has really been a ride. There are some parts I’m happy with and some I’m not but this is probably the longest piece of historical anything I’ve ever written so just for that I’m proud of it. I hope you enjoy the ending and watch out for some other projects that I’m almost done with/really excited about sharing with all of you! Thanks for reading!

“ _What?”_  Bellamy demanded, shocked enough to abandon his guard post in front of Clarke.  “He’s going to  _what?”_

“Kill you,” Gwen repeated calmly.

“And you’re going to what?” Bellamy asked.  “Help him?”

Gwen jerked as if she’d slapped her.

“ _Bellamy_ ,” Clarke hissed.

“I don’t know her, Clare,” he snapped back, stumbling slightly over her name as though, in the heat of the moment, he’d forgotten.

“Yeah, but  _I_  do.  She’s the reason why you weren’t completely slaughtered out there on that tournament field.”

“Only partly,” Gwen added quietly.  “I will admit that he is a much better fighter than I was ever anticipating.”

“Or your husband,” Bellamy snapped darkly.  “I’m sure.”

Gwen smiled demurely.  “You would be correct.  Edwin is very much not pleased with your performance.  He wishes to make quick work of you so that you don’t continue to ruin his carefully laid plans.”

“He intended for me to die out there, didn’t he.”

She nodded once.  “I did everything in my power to ensure that that did not happen.”

“Why?” Bellamy’s posture had warmed slightly but ice still dripped from his words.

Gwen considered him for a long moment before answering.  “I could see how much you mean to the Lady Clare.  And I could not bear for her to live without the man she loves in a world as cruel as this.”

Bellamy swiveled to stare at Clarke, a bit disbelieving, wonder in his eyes.  She offered him the smallest of smiles, the most she could manage, considering both of them were likely to be dead and strung up on the battlements within the hour.

“Clarke?” he whispered.

She felt moisture prick in the corners of her eyes.  “That’s a conversation for when we get back, Bellamy, and you know it.”

“Back?” Gwen asked sharply.  “Back where?”  Her head snapped to Clarke.  “And why is he calling you Clarke?”

Clarke swallowed, looked her in the eye.  “Clare’s not my name.  It’s Clarke.  Clarke Griffin.”

Gwen’s head tilted to the side.  “And where are you really from, Clarke?”

This time it was Bellamy who spoke.  “The year two thousand and fifteen.”

Gwen’s eyes widened.  She pushed herself off the bed, stumbling a little.  “The future?” she breathed.

Clarke nodded.  “The future.”

“What is it that you need to get back to your own time?  And how can I help?”

The next thirty minutes were the longest of Clarke’s life, as she and Bellamy huddled under the bed, arms wrapped tightly around each other, trying not to breathe too loudly as a party of Edwin’s men smashed in the door.  Gwen had left after Bellamy told her about the token, promising that she would get them out but she had to figure some things out first.

Bellamy had been wary, begging Clarke to just run and figure out the semantics later.  Clarke had insisted that they had to wait, that Gwen was on their side, and it would all work out.  She could tell from the tightness of his muscles that he hadn’t believed her, that he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

 _She wouldn’t betray us_ , Clarke repeated over and over in her head.

But it wasn’t until Edwin’s men trooped out of the room, unsuccessful, that she started to believe it.

The linens were lifted from the floor not five minutes later by a decidedly feminine hand and it was Gwen’s red hair that greeted them.  “Come on,” she whispered.  “The coast is clear for now.”

Bellamy practically shoved Clarke out ahead of him and she scrambled to her feet, brushing the dust off her tunic the best she could.

“I’ve found the token as you call it,” Gwen told them in hushed tones as she led them out the door.  “Edwin’s keeping it under guard.  And I have a plan.”

The halls were suspiciously empty, something that Clarke pointed out to Gwen.

“I may have suggested to the guards that they search the dungeons,” the other girl answered slowly.

Clarke stared at her in disbelief.

“What?”

“Nothing.  Just…thank you.”

Gwen studied her.  “You can thank me when you’re safely out of here.  Now come on.”

“Where are we going?” Bellamy asked as Gwen directed them down a staircase so narrow it barely allowed one person to pass.

“You two are going to an antechamber near the Great Hall where I will more easily be able to fetch you when this is done,” Gwen replied. “And I am going to do something incredibly ill advised.”

“Gwen—” Clarke began.

“No,” Gwen insisted.  “Don’t.  I have made up my mind, Lady, and I will not be dissuaded.”

“I’m not—”

“And yet you deserve the title more than any true lady I’ve ever met,” Gwen replied defiantly.  “Perhaps even more than me.”

“That’s not true.”

Gwen turned to look at her, pausing just slightly on her next step.  “Have you not lied?  Have you not entered into the belly of the beast just to get yourself home?  Have you not gone to great lengths to protect  _him_?”  She gestured over Clarke’s shoulder to Bellamy.

“I had to.”

“No,” Gwen said quietly.  “You didn’t.”

And with that she turned again, shoulders hunched inwards just slightly, and hurried her pace.

The anteroom she had mentioned was barely more than a stone box, drafty and cold.  Clarke couldn’t help but pace, knowing what was happening next door in the Great Hall, knowing that Gwen was putting herself at risk and there was nothing Clarke could do about it.

“Clarke,” Bellamy croaked from the post he’d taken up on the wall.  “I need to tell you something.”

She stopped, turned to face him. “I’m not entirely sure that now is the time.”

He grinned.  “Well, it might be the only time I’ve got so…I wanted to say sorry.”

Clarke frowned.  “Sorry?  What do you have to be sorry for?”

“Three years ago.  I…well, I fucked up.  It was my fault.  I knew better.”  He paused.  Clarke watched him, sensing that he had something else to add.  “I could feel myself…falling for you.  And I hated it.  So, I purposefully did something stupid and then pretended I never cared.”

Clarke’s eyes widened.  “Bellamy—”

“For three years I’ve been lying to myself and I’ve been lying to you.  So, considering that enough crazy things have already happened over the last two days to make me reconsider literally  _everything_  I know about anything and the fact that I very well might not survive the next two hours, I just wanted to say that Clarke Griffin, I’m in love with you.  And I have been since the night I met you.”

Clarke bit her lip, fighting the urge to laugh.  “You’re a dumb piece of shit, Bellamy Blake,” she whispered.

“Yeah?” he asked, taking a careful step towards her, eyes alight with a curious hope.

“Yeah,” she said, a bit breathier than she was willing to admit, “and God help me, I love you, too.”

His answering grin could have blocked out the sun.

The door banged open.  “Let’s go,” Gwen ordered from the doorway.  “We’ve got fifteen minutes before Edwin wakes up angrier than ever.”

“We were kind of having a moment here,” Bellamy said drily, gesturing between himself and Clarke.

Rolling her eyes, Clarke shoved past him, sure to brush her hand across his as she did it.  “Come on, if we make it out of here we can have as many  _moments_ as you like.”  She grasped Gwen’s shoulder quickly, looking the other girl in the eyes as she said, “Thank you.”

Gwen nodded, once.  “There will be more time for goodbyes later.  Let’s get you two out of here.  The guards should be almost finished searching the dungeons.”

Clarke nodded and followed her into the courtyard.

“Where is it?” Bellamy asked.

Gwen pointed at the drawbridge.  “In the chapel in the outer courtyard.  Edwin must have thought no one would look there.”  She smiled faintly.  “Evidently he was wrong.”

The drawbridge appeared unguarded at first glance but when she looked closer, Clarke saw two guards passed out in the shadows cast by the arch and portcullis.

“They got in the way,” Gwen said simply when she saw Clarke looking.

Bellamy darted into the chapel quickly and returned only moments later clutching the token.

“Shoved inside the priest’s habit just like you said,” he told Gwen and she smiled.  “But I’m absolutely going to hell for doing that.”

Clarke laughed.

“You must go,” Gwen insisted.  “We’re running out of time.”

“He’ll kill you,” Clarke said solemnly.

Gwen smiled, a little sadly.  “We all must bear a burden for doing what we know is right.  This is mine.”  She looked from Clarke and Bellamy and back.  “After all, Clarke has shown me more friendship than anyone in this castle ever has.  I owe it to her.”

Clarke swallowed.  “Thank you.”

“Thank  _you_ ,” Gwen repeated, clasping her hands.

There was a shout behind them and she cast a worried glance over her shoulder.  “Go,” she hissed.  “Go now.”

“They’ll write history books about you,” Bellamy told her as he grabbed Clarke’s hand and positioned his thumb over the button.

“That sounds nice,” Gwen said in a way that made Clarke’s heart feel as though it was going to break in two.  “Go.”

Bellamy clicked the button and Clarke felt as though she was being yanked back by a strong gale.  An army of guards burst over the drawbridge as they were pulled farther away.  A guard seized Gwen, knocking her backwards and still she didn’t look away.  There was a small grin on her face as she raised her free hand in a farewell salute that Clarke returned, feeling the tears pricking at her eyes.

And then the courtyard and Gwen were gone, and Bellamy and Clarke, in dusty period attired, were sprawled on the floor of Raven and Wick’s living room, gasping and disoriented, but together and very very much alive.

“ _Holy shit!_ ”  Raven was on them in a second, hands flying over them, fussing and worried.  “Are you two okay?”

Bellamy sat up.  “That depends on your definition of okay,” he muttered.  “But we’re alive, which is about the best that we could say.”

Raven stared at them, wide-eyed for another minute, before yelling, “ _Kyle!”_  over her shoulder.  “Okay, up, you get, shower and then food?  You hungry?”

Clarke hadn’t thought about it until then but she was.  “Starving.”

“I’ll make you something.”

She caught Bellamy’s arm as he made to follow Clarke.  “What the hell happened?” she whispered to him, just loud enough for Clarke to hear.

“You built a working time machine, Raven, what do you think happened?”

“Jesus,” she muttered.  “You are the one who pushed the button.”

He shrugged.  “Clarke was yelling at me.”

“You should be used to that enough by now to not get that flustered, “Raven chided.

Clarke could tell that Bellamy was grinning as he said, “we can point fingers later.  Right now I’m just going to go use all of Wick’s incredibly manly fifteen dollar shampoo.”

Raven laughed, a little weakly.  “Yeah, okay.”

It wasn’t until later, when Raven, Wick, Clarke, Bellamy, and their other close friends, no doubt alerted to Clarke and Bellamy’s miraculous return while Clarke had been washing off the eleventh century in the shower.

Bellamy had just finished explaining about their escape and Gwen’s sacrifice while Clarke listened, thinking about the look of peace on the other girl’s face, remembering the way she had talked about Edwin, just remembering.

“She was a remarkable woman,” she said once Bellamy had finished speaking.  “It was an honor to know her.”

Bellamy nodded.  He lifted his half-empty water glass and said, “To Gwen.”

They echoed him and took a drink.

“What happened to her?” Monty asked after a moment of silence.

Bellamy and Clarke shared a quick look as Raven opened her laptop and navigated onto the Internet.

“Well, she has a Wikipedia page,” Raven muttered, eyes scanning.  Then she bit her lip.  “Executed,” she said finally.  “In August of 1087 by her husband for treason.”  She looked up.  “Her last words were ‘for my lady.’”

Tears again pricked in the corners of Clarke’s eyes.  Bellamy reached for and squeezed her hand.  She squeezed back.

“I love you, Clarke Griffin,” he whispered into her hair.

“And I love you, Bellamy Blake,” she replied.

And sure, it might have taken an accidental trip to the High Middle Ages and him almost dying at the hands of a psychopathic lord but it was true.  And it was right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please come talk to me on [Tumblr!](http://rebelprincebell.tumblr.com)


End file.
